


i am his, as he is mine

by julesmpm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya X Gendry Week, But y'all know that, Canon Universe, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gendrya - Freeform, Sweetie pies, axgweek, axgweek2019, i love these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-08-20 19:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20233525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesmpm/pseuds/julesmpm
Summary: seven moments.(written for Arya x Gendry Week 2019)





	1. let's run away

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so here's the tea.
> 
> I completely forgot about Gendrya Week until the week actually started, and then I realized very suddenly that I wanted to have a good time and just write some fun, unrelated bits for these two loves of my life. I know that it's already day 3 (lol) so I'm very behind, but I will get them all up!! I promise!!
> 
> (Also these were supposed to be short drabbles but this first one turned into 2000 words so don't trust me lmao).

**1\. Let's Run Away** _(canon)_

It takes but a simple mind to recognize that he’s broken.

Fully functional, yes, but in pieces none the less.

He’s broody, walks with his head often turned towards the earth instead of the sky, a furrow in his brow that never seems to come unknit.

The people of Storm’s End respect him, understand that he has seen things that they could never fathom, and he is a good, kind lord to them. He is, despite everything, doing his best to rebuild them, to help them, and so his people keep their hushed tones of his sad eyes and fixed jaw to the corners of their homes.

Although they may not understand his sullen frown, they know it is not for them.

It is only for her.

There are whispers of a woman back in the north, a warrior who had held the lord’s heart in the palm of her hand and was ultimately the reason that it now appeared splintered, a collection of pieces and shards.

No one’s dared to ask him to his face, though.

He’s glad. He’s not sure he could lie to them.

The first time he leaves Storm’s End is, almost ironically, to return to Kings Landing. He travels to meet with the lords and ladies of the remaining great houses in the dusty heat of the Dragonpits, and he sits and does his duty and nods and assists in electing Bran as King of the Six Kingdoms.

He doesn’t look her way once.

He thinks it will hurt too much.

It’s after the council meeting, when it feels like some sort of shaky but palpable order has been restored and they’ve all dropped their proper masks in order to have a drink, that he hears her name mentioned for the first time in what feels like ages.

“What?” He’s sandwiched between Podrick and another, and he’s completely missed what words cushioned her name.

Pod looks over at him, chin nearly touched shoulder in their close quarters, and he speaks in hushed tones.

“There’s talk of Lady Arya leaving Westeros. The smallfolk have seen her speaking with merchants and sailors down by the docks.”

He blinks.

The words don’t quite settle in his stomach.

“Leaving Westeros?” His voice is louder than Pod’s, and the knight glances around, a crease in his brow as he checks to see if any party appeared to be eavesdropping. “To go where? Braavos? Essos?”

“I’m not sure, my lord.” He shrugs, and Gendry fights the instinct to correct the title. “If Lady Arya doesn’t want people to know where she’s going, I think it’s safe to say that the people won’t.”

It stings, nearly burns, when he thinks about how he’s become just one of these _people_ to her.

“Why?” The word holds much more selfishness than he’ll ever admit, and Pod smiles a sad smile.

“After seeing the things she’s seen?” He takes a gulp of his ale and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. “I’m surprised she’s stayed this long.”

Podrick is right, and the burn worsens.

So he decides to find out the truth for himself.

Dusk is falling as he leaves the drunk lords behind, throwing a light pink hue over the crumbling remains of a city once so divine.

He makes his way through the dust and destruction, still so fresh that he swears smoke is clouding his vision. But it begins to clear as he nears the water, the edge of the sea.

The docks are nearly empty, with only two ships resting in the harbour and not a man in sight. It’s eerie to behold, the place he’s recognized all of his life as a bustling metropolis of business and ships and merchants now fallen so very quiet.

There is not a man in sight, but there is a woman, dangling her feet over the edge of dock.

Every step towards her feels like he’s walking barefoot across burning coals and it’s hard and much more laborious than it should be, but he keeps placing one foot in front of the other, looking down as his toe meets opposite heel over and over again, until he reaches the edge of the dock.

Then, he looks up. And she looks right back.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to take her face in his hands, run his thumb over the new scars that’ve appeared since their last encounter, take inventory of the way her nostrils flare and her eyebrows twitch and learn everything about her and then—

And then he remembers that she said no, and the urge shatters as easily as a mirror hit by a rock.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even really acknowledge him before turning her eyes back towards the sea, and he can’t tell if he’s upset or infuriated or confused or curious or some sort of mixture between them all.

“I hear you’re planning to leave.” She keeps her gaze steady, eyes fixated on the warm horizon.

“I don’t think I’m alone in wanting to get out of this hell-hole as soon as possible.” Her voice is quiet, almost hollow, and holds no edge.

He moves closer to her, standing so his toes are in line with her dangling knees.

“I hear you’re planning to leave Westeros.” She lets out a snort at that, and it takes him aback.

“Can’t do anything in this city without someone prying. Even after it’s all been burnt to a crisp.”

“So the words hold truth?” She doesn’t answer, not immediately, and the sound of waves pulsing against the rocks below seems to speak instead.

“I suppose they do.” And it feels as though her words are the waves, and he is the rocks they crash into.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails biting the skin of his palms.

“Where?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She looks up at him again, and her eyes are soft. “Wherever is unknown. Uncharted. Whatever is far west.”

It’d be stupid of him to ask why. He already has that answer.

It doesn’t make the prospect claw at him any less.

“You’re running.” The words are deep, stuck to his throat, and she gives him an empty smile.

“Maybe. You could call it that.” As much as he tries to stop it, hot anger begins to spread from his neck to the tips of his toes.

“You’ve got a perfectly good place here, you know?” Her smile fades, mouth in a straight line.

“My family have good places.” Her response is colder than before, and his anger dampens only slightly when the ice of her tone hits it. “Sansa has Winterfell. Bran technically has all the kingdoms, but he really will have this place. And Jon—” Her breath hitches at the mention of her adopted brother, and it takes everything he has not to reach out and place a hand on her shoulder. “Even Jon’s got the Wall. Castle Black. They call it banishment, but it’s been his place for many years.”

She pauses, letting her words settle before continuing in a matter-of-fact manner.

“I don’t have a place, Gendry. I’ve nowhere I’m obligated to be, and I don’t know if that’ll last two moons or the rest of my life. I want to take advantage of that while I can.” And she looks back out, hands gently bracing herself against the dock as she leans forward and inhales the salty air. “People settle so young here. I don’t want to settle until I’ve at least seen my options.”

“People like me.” It’s not a question and he doesn’t expect an answer, and she doesn’t give him one.

He hates the way his anger seems to have the ability to melt away with her words.

The wind’s whistling through her hair as he moves to sit next to her on the dock, dropping his legs to dangle parallel to hers. She doesn’t react, keeps looking at the skyline, but he’s a different type of warm now. It’s not anger that’s heating his body anymore.

“I understand why you said no.” He hasn’t planned on telling her this, at least not so soon after everything, but there’s something about the way the winds are blowing that make it feel as though it’s the right time to share. “It hurt, still hurts, but it makes sense. You never did want to be a lady.”

She turns her head at this, barely having to look up to look into his eyes from her seat, and hers are filled with a mixture of remorse and ferocity that is so very _Arya_.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am.”

He shrugs.

“S’okay. My timing was pretty shit anyways.”

The ease with which he can speak about something that’s held so much magnitude in his life for the past month or so surprises him.

And then he feels her hand move to rest atop his and every thought he has disappears completely.

“I love you too.”

And his heart shatters _again_.

“I didn’t think I’d have the chance to tell you, when I left. I thought I’d be long gone by now. I’d accepted it, I think. And now, it’s like the prospect of a long, happy life has come out of nowhere, and I’m not sure what to do—”

He silences her words by pressing his lips to hers.

There’s not a moment of hesitation from her, just her hand raising to cup his cheek as she melts, and he’s cursing the deck for making him need a portion of his mind actively keeping him balanced from falling into the waves below.

She’s the first to pull away, but she leaves her forehead pressed against his and he can feel her quick, hot breath against his chin.

“Let’s run away.” Her words are breathy, soft, and he resists the urge to kiss her again. “Let’s explore and discover and learn and grow together, Gendry, now that we have the chance to.”

And as much as he wants to, wants to say yes and pick her up in his arms and spin her in circles and never let her go, there’s a dull pain in his abdomen that he knows he can’t ignore.

“I can’t.” She doesn’t pull away at his words, doesn’t even seem surprised. “I wish I could, Arya. But I’ve got a duty now, in Storm’s End. I’ve got people that depend on me.”

She nods, pulls back ever so slightly but keeps her hand resting on his cheek.

“You’ve got your place now too. I understand.” There’s a sadness to her words, and she runs her thumb along his jawline. “I did say you’d be a wonderful lord.”

“I’m decent.” She laughs, and it’s a welcome sound. “I’m learning.”

The laugh lingers for a moment, and they both take the chance to breathe it in, let each other’s touch be enough for just a second.

“There’s going to be a lot of women. A lord needs an heir.” His smile fades at her words. “You can’t wait for me.”

How is it that she can find her way into the deepest crevices of his mind, know exactly what he’s thinking before he’s even fully formulated the thought?

But the answer is still crystal clear, at least to him.

“I can and I will.” She’s shaking her head before he finishes.

“You _can’t_. I can’t promise my return to you, Gendry. It’s unwritten for me.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should—”

“But I _don’t_.” And he takes her hands tightly in his, because he doesn’t want to spend what could be the last days they have together in some sort of stupid argument. “Please don’t try to change my mind, Arya. I didn’t try to change yours.”

She goes quiet, looks down at her hands in his and draws a breath, shakier than normal. He takes the silence as an opportunity to draw her knuckles to his lips, holding them there for a moment before continuing.

“You will always have a room in Storms End, as long as I am lord.” He doesn’t want to say it can be her place, doesn’t want to imply that she needs to return to Westeros and choose to live with him, but he wants the offer, sure as anything he’s ever said, to be put in the open. To give it an opportunity to land.

And she smiles.

“You’re a stubborn man, Gendry Baratheon.” He smiles too, leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“You’re a stubborn woman, Arya Stark.”

And if the people of Storms End were to pass by the docks of Kings Landing that evening, see their lord with a woman resting her head against his shoulder with their fingers woven together so tightly that they could be permanently locked together, they may finally begin to gain an understanding of his previously furrowed brow.


	2. marry me now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're still behind, but eh, c'est la vie.

2_. Marry Me Now_ **(Modern AU)**

It takes all of five seconds for her to slam open the apartment door, throw her bag on the table, grab a beer (his beer!) directly from his hands and flop onto the opposite end of the couch with a loud, overdramatic sigh.

He blinks at her from his reclined position, where only moments before he had been enjoying his crisp beer and watching what was becoming an abundantly dull game of footie on the television.

“Rough day?” She takes a long sip of his beer and pouts, bottom lip jutting towards her chin.

“Why are weddings such a big deal?” He laughs, and immediately goes back to a straight face when she positively _glares_ at him. “It isn’t funny!”

“Only a bit.” He sits up and plucks the beer bottle back from her hand before she can protest. “You know, there is more beer in the fridge.”

She’s still glaring at him, but the daggers she’s shooting barely really reach their mark. He lifts his arm, offers her the space between it and his torso, and it really only takes another second for her eyes to soften.

“I don’t know how I ended up with a sister that’s so obsessed with planning _my_ wedding.” She huffs half-heartedly, moving so that she’s sandwiched between the side of the couch and his chest. He lets his arm fall so it rests around her shoulder, and his lips turn upwards as she places her hand above his heart.

“Karma, probably.” She uses the hand to smack him, and he barely winces at the sting. If she had wanted to hurt him, he knows she could’ve. “Also, just to make sure, it’s our wedding she’s doting upon, right? Not another wedding of yours to some man that’s going to swoop you right from my hands?”

“Of course it’s ours.” Her voice is muffled in his shoulder, but he can still hear the way it feels ever so slightly defeated. Then, as an after thought— “Idiot.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, feels as she shifts her warm weight closer to him. At this rate, they’re going to fall off the couch, but he doesn’t really mind.

“What did she do?” And he swears he can _feel_ Arya rolling her eyes.

“She wanted to talk flowers. And bridesmaids. And _dresses_.” The disgust is palpable in her tone, and he has to stifle another laugh from escaping because this is clearly a very serious matter. Clearly. “At this rate, I think I’d be better off if I had a bouquet of wheatgrass without a bridal party and no dress at all.”

Suddenly, all he can picture is Arya walking down the aisle completely naked, with a brown stalk of wheat clutched in her palms.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that.” She’s sulking, he can tell. “Although, might be a little awkward for the guests. Especially your brothers.”

“_Gendry_.”

“Sorry.”

“She wants everything to be so _pretty_.” She reaches across him, grabs the beer and takes another swig before placing it back on the coffee table and resuming her spot in his hold. “She kept using the word perfect. It’s not going to be perfect. Nothing about either of our lives is perfect, so why are we trying to make a day that’s all about us something that we’re not? It’s stupid.”

“I think she just cares a lot, Arya.” She huffs at that, too. “You _are_ her only sister, after all. She wants it to be a nice day.”

“I know that.” She’s sighing again, and her arm wraps tightly around his torso. “It’s just a lot that I didn’t ever think I’d need to think about, and suddenly she’s got these binders that are colour-coded with those little fucking tabs and she keeps asking me about things like what I want my colour palette to be or what kind of ceremony we’re thinking of or what I want the vegetarian catering option to look like and I just don’t know any of the answers, you know?” She buries her face in his chest, and he knows she’s listening to him breathe because that’s what she does when she needs to calm herself down. “It’s just a lot.”

“Yeah. It sounds like it is.” She turns her head, rests her chin just below his collarbone and looks at him, mouth pinched to one side.

“The only thing I know that I want for our wedding is for you to be there.” Her words aren’t harsh anymore, and he pulls her so that she’s lying directly on top of him and all he can see are her big, grey eyes.

“Me too.” She smiles at that, and he knows she’s going to remember this moment and laugh at how sappy they’re both being but right now, it’s exactly what she needs. “That’s my only deal breaker.”

“Good.”

She is so beautiful. She is so wickedly beautiful and skilled and ferocious and kind and he’s really really not sure what he’s done to deserve someone like her in his life.

To be getting _married_ to someone like her.

It still sends a thrill to the tips of his toes when he thinks about it.

“You could…you know…” He pauses for a moment, watches as her brow furrows slightly and holding himself back from leaning up to kiss the wrinkle between her eyes. “You could just marry me now. Right here. If we’re all that we want at our wedding.”

She pauses then too, and for a second he wonders if she’s considering it, knows that she’s thought about a shotgun wedding more than once since they got engaged. She’s brought up elopement a good few times as well.

He’s decidedly happy with whatever she wants. As long as he gets to marry her at the end of the day.

She kisses his nose.

“Sansa would murder us.” He snorts because she’s so right. “Like cut us apart and hide the pieces murder. And don’t even get me started on Jon.”

“I don’t know if Sansa thinks like that.”

“I think she would if her binder turned out to be for shit-all.” She scrunches her nose in the direction of bottle. “And besides, I’m not about to have shit beer as the only drink at the bar.”

“Agreed.” And he sits up, presses his lips to hers before moving to her chin and then her neck. “I don’t know if sex on a couch would be on the agenda for the big day, either.”

She sits up slightly, lets out a soft hum as his lips dust her collarbone, and smiles, momentarily distracted from the wedding woes of the previous moment.

“I wouldn’t count that out completely.”

Neither would he.


	3. reunion

3\. **Reunion** _(Canon)_

He has learned that in Storm’s End, it does not rain; it pours as though the heavens above have opened and the gods are sobbing.

He can’t say he likes days like these; everything seems to slow, if not halting completely, and so the day often feels like a write off, wasted. The days are dull, long, and very, very grey.

So when he wakes and hears the pounding of the rain on his window, he’s resigned himself to a day in his chambers before he’s even pulled himself out of his bed. He’ll perch himself at his desk, read the ravens, go over food supplies, and then—

“My lord? Are you awake?”

Davos’s voice is muffled through the thick wood of the door, and he yawns, suddenly wanting nothing more than to shove his head into his pillow and get a touch more sleep before beginning the bound to be dreary day.

But then there’s a loud, knocking, echoing through the walls, and he lets out a groan as the sound proves to be persistent.

Whatever his advisor wants, he is not going to wait for.

So he pushes himself out of bed, shivering as the cool air hits his chest and grabbing his tunic from the bedpost, pulling it over his head as he makes his way towards the door. The rain seems wilder than he thought, pounding and whistling outside like a true torrential storm, and it is so incredibly uninviting that he selfishly wishes he could sleep through the entire day.

He doesn’t really have any chances to be selfish, as a lord. He supposes it’s for the greater good.

The handle of the door is cold as he turns it, and it creaks as he pulls it open, revealing a rather soaked Davos, rainwater dripping from his clothes to the brick below. His eyebrows raise as he sees Gendry, and nods his head in a quick greeting, flicking water over his shoulder as he does.

“Pardon me, my lord. I know it’s early.” Gendry shakes his head, brow furrowing as he looks his advisor up and down.

“I was up already.” His remark is passive, but he can’t stop thinking about how Davos looks as though he needs to be wrung out and dried. “Have you been outside? In this mess?”

Davos nods, and there’s something in his eyes that Gendry can’t quite place.

It’s unsettling.

“There appears to be a ship trying to dock in the bay.” Gendry’s eyes widen. “It doesn’t seem as though they accounted for weather like this.”

“What kind of maniac would try to dock if they had?” The waves are hostile in these conditions, he knows, spitting white foam and crashing with a force like none other. “Do you know who they are?”

“No.” Davos frowns. “The wind and rain have made sightlines absolutely horrific. We’re lucky we could spot their ship at all.”

“I should be down there to receive them, shouldn’t I?” His advisor nods, looking apologetic, and Gendry sighs. “I’ll get dressed. Do we have men helping them with docking?”

“As many as would brave the storm, my lord.” He sighs again, runs a palm down his face and over the stubble on his chin. “I’ll be going back down to help them.”

“Thank you, Davos.” The man nods again before turning to walk back down the hall, and Gendry closes the chamber door behind him, exhaling loudly.

It looks as though he will not be resigned to his chambers, after all.

* * *

The storm is just as dreadful as he’d assumed it would be.

He stands on the base of the dock, cape curling with the wind. The rain has already soaked through his multiple layers, and it’s resulted in chattering teeth and shivering limbs. Somehow, despite the climate of the area, Storms End has yet to discover a fully waterproof fabrication.

He makes a mental note to begin looking deeper into research on that.

Davos was right about sightlines; not only is the wind and the rain a ghastly combination, but it’s brought about this fog that seems to swirl in front of his eyes, almost like snow but never quite landing on the ground. It’s eerie at best.

Somehow, by some grace of the gods, they’ve been able to dock this ship at the port, despite the crashing waves and wind that tore the sail right from the mast. There’s no way of identifying the newcomers now except to greet them, and it would be a lie to say he wasn’t apprehensive; he’s had his fair share of threats since arriving at Storms End.

But they’ve fought so hard to dock in this monsoon, and he can’t help but think that enemies would be much more strategic when planning their attacks, and he uses that the quell the flipping inside his stomach.

They’ve begun to step off of their boat, he can see, grasping the arms of his men and pulling themselves onto the dock. He’s so far from where they’ve stopped that he can only really make out silhouettes, and so he begins to walk closer, holding his cape closed in from of him to keep it from flapping out beside him with the wind.

It’s a smaller ship than he’d originally thought, he sees, but his attention is suddenly stolen away from the vessel by the figure that is standing ever so still a few feet ahead of him.

His heart drops down to his feet.

“_Arya_.”

His voice is barely more than a whisper, so soft that he knows he’s the only one who can hear it under the gust of the wind.

It’s _her_.

She’s just as tiny as he remembers, and as he walks closer to her, he sees that she’s shaking like a leaf.

He thought he was thoroughly soaked, and he’s been out in the rain for nearly no time at all compared to her.

She’s here. She sailed her ship into the storm to get back to this dock. _His _dock.

He’s having a hard time convincing himself that this isn’t some sort of convoluted fever dream.

It’s like the whistling of the wind and the pounding of the rain have faded, as though he’s back in his chambers and those sounds are outside and he’s in a bubble, with only her, nothing else.

He doesn’t need anything else.

_Please don’t try to change my mind, Arya. I never tried to change yours._

He never did. The thought never even so much as crossed his mind.

He stops an arms-length away from her, and they both just look at each other, as though the wind is making them sway and the rain isn’t soaking them to their core.

He wants to be able to see her, really see her, undiluted by the rain so she’s less of a blur and more of a whole, real, physical being instead of what feels like could be an apparition.

But through everything, he can still see her smile.

“Quite a welcome you’ve set up for us.” Her voice, despite everything, is _teasing_, as though they haven’t spent a minute away from each other.

As though he hasn’t spent every night of the past three years thinking about what words he would say to her when she returned.

If she ever returned.

“If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve told the storm to return another day.”

They were not even close to what he’d imagined he’d be saying.

Then again, she’s never really been anything but unexpected, Arya.

Her smile grows at that, and he can feel his own lips mirroring hers, and suddenly, instantaneously, the gap between them is closed and he’s got her in his arms grasping onto her soaking cloak so tightly and lifting her so her boots drift from the dock. She’s laughing, proper, hysterical peals of laughter, and he can’t help but join in.

She’s back she’s back she’s back she’s _back_.

No matter how many times he repeats the phrase, he can’t make it sound real.

He sets her down but doesn’t loosen his hold so she’s pressed up to his chest ever so tightly because he wants to be in contact with her at every point possible, to try and convince himself of her presence and draw himself out of his haze.

She’s looking up at him, her big stormy grey eyes meeting his so very tenderly, and she lifts both of her hands to cup his face.

He doesn’t hesitate in pressing a searing kiss to her lips, and she, in turn, doesn’t hesitate in wrapping her fingers through his sopping wet hair, pulling him even closer to that their noses and foreheads bump together.

She tastes like salt and sea and rain and warmth and _Arya_, and the taste is almost intoxicating.

“I told you not to wait for me.” Her words are breathy, and he swallows them with his lips before replying.

“I told you not to try and change my mind.”

He missed her, with every fiber of his being, and now he’s incredibly and acutely aware of how desperately hungry he is for her too.

There’s a whistle from behind them, and he breaks away, looks to see that it’s not from the wind but from Arya’s crew, who are all smiling and clapping and whooping.

And although the rain is still blurring his vision, he can see Davos, eyebrow raised, a smile playing underneath his moustache.

He can’t help the stupid grin that appears on his lips.

Arya turns her head too, wet hair nearly whipping him in the face. She’s grown it out some, is wearing it in a braid like he remembers seeing in the North, and he urgently wants to pull out the hair tie and run his fingers through it.

“Fuck off!” It’s a playful yell, and she holds up her middle finger to accentuate her statement before return her hand to his chest.

There’s a clap of thunder, and he looks up towards the darkening sky.

“We should probably go inside.” She nods in response, joins him in his gaze at the clouds. “Get you out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch a chill if you stay in those.”

He looks down at her, and she’s got her eyebrow quirked, but her pupils are so intensely dilated that he swears he could fall right into them.

“You’re pretty soggy yourself.” She hums, playing at the tie that holds his cloak together in the front. “I’d say you should get out of yours, too. Just to be safe.”

He presses another kiss to her lips and then unravels himself, clutches her hand in his, and ignores the jeers from Arya’s crew as he pulls her away from the docks, back towards the castle.

He couldn’t care less about them, couldn’t care less about what he must look like, a lord pulling a woman ashore and immediately up to his chambers.

He doesn’t care at all.

She’s back.

She’s _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it basic? Yes! Was it fluffy? Yes! Was it realistic? Who knows? Was it fun to write? Absolutely!
> 
> xo


	4. just get naked

4\. **Just Get Naked** _(Modern AU)_

He’s sloshed. Pissed. Absolutely gone.

She had pulled up to Sansa and Theon’s with low expectations, judging by her sister’s recounting over the phone that yes, the boys had made their home from the pub, and yes, Gendry was absolutely going to be needing a ride back to their flat.

Normally, after going out with Jon, Theon and Pod, he’s able to walk back to their place, crawl into bed next to her with a whiskey scented kiss before wrapping his arm over her and falling into a deep sleep.

But once in a while, Gendry’s eyes are a little too big for his liver.

And when Sansa opens the door for her and she immediately sees her boyfriend, lying on the couch and positively wrapped around one of her sister’s cushions, she knows immediately what kind of night he’s had.

He’s got his eyes closed, and he’s humming some sort of tune while swaying back and forth, gripping the cushion as though he’s been charged with protecting it with his life, and she has to stifle a laugh with the back of her hand.

“I would’ve driven him over myself, but Theon’s been looking pretty green and I don’t really want him to puke all over my car.” Sansa’s voice is apologetic, but she’s shaking her head towards the couch, unable to keep a grin off of her face. Theon’s there too, in Arya’s sight now that she’s stepped into the flat, and he’s sat on the floor, leaning against the arm of the couch, head lolling back and forth.

They look absolutely ridiculous, the pair of them.

“How’d they get back here alive?”

“Pod.” Gendry’s humming is slowly growing louder. “Brought them all the way up and everything, before taking Jon home.”

“What a saint.” Her sister nods, crosses her arms and leans against the door. “How did we end up with these two morons?”

“Don’t ask me.”

He’s still rocking back and forth, still with his eyes shut, and so she makes her way across the room, kneels in front of him and puts her hands on his knees.

“Oi, maestro.” His eyes open and consequently widen, jaw dropping, and he looks like a five year old that’s just found a bin of candy.

“Arya!” His breath smells of whiskey, alright, and she scrunches her nose. “You’re here!”

“That I am. You smell.” Her comment doesn’t seem to affect him at all, and he reaches forward and pulls her into him so now she’s squishing the other side of Sansa’s cushion.

“I can’t believe you came to find me.” His words are definitely slurring. “You came all this way just to find _me_!”

“It’s kind of an obligation, idiot.” She manages to pull away from him by pressing the cushion more firmly in his direction, and his arms move from being wrapped around her to back around the décor as he sits back, a dopey smile on his face. “We only live a couple blocks over, anyways.”

“You came because you _love_ me.” He draws out the word, pats the cushion as if to accentuate the sentiment, and she can hear Sansa giggling.

“I came because I don’t want to leave my sister with two oafs to take care of, actually.” She stands and takes his wrists in her hands, fully intending on pulling him up on his feet.

She’s forgotten how heavy he can be mid-stupor.

He doesn’t budge, instead pulling back on her, and as a result she stumbles right into his lap, where he wraps his arms around her again and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

“You’re just so lovely.” He’s talking right into her cheek, eyes closed again, and it’s stupid how charming he can be even when he’s piss-drunk. “Have I ever told you that? I think I should say that more. You’re a pretty lovely girl.” He stops for a moment. “You’re _my_ pretty lovely girl.”

“I doubt you’ll be feeling so lovely tomorrow morning.” She turns so that they’re eye to eye, and his big Baratheon blues are as wide as a puppy’s. “We should get you back home. Get you to bed.”

His eyebrows raise.

“You’re going to take me to bed?” She immediately curses her choice of words, and she tries to pull away to try and get him up again but he’s got his strong arms locking her down. “I really am a lucky man.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Baratheon. Up and at ‘em.”

“Did you hear that?” He directs the words over her shoulder, towards Sansa. “Arya Stark is going to take me to _bed_.” And he waggles his eyebrows, looking back at her. “Or we could always just get naked here.”

Sansa is cackling.

“Ok, Gendry.” She pushes back with as much force as she can muster, and is somehow miraculously able to break out of his grasp. He pouts at the lack of touch, lets out a huff, and she can’t believe she’s dating a bona fide five year old. “It’s time to go.”

“But I’m having so much _fun._” It’s her turn to sigh, and she leans forward, takes his hands in her own.

“I understand that. But…” And she places her mouth right above his ear, lowers her voice to a whisper. “…I’m sure we can find many more ways to have _fun_ at_ our place_.”

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The speed with which he bounds up off of the couch is rather surprising; the staggering that follows, however, is not.

She gives him a peck for good measure, and then releases one of her hands and leads him towards the door.

“Thanks again.” Sansa nods in response, now back to attempting to maintain composure to make up for the lack of it in the living room, and she turns and waves to the man still sat on the floor. “Night, Theon.”

Theon grunts.

By some grace of the gods, she manages to get her staggering, bumbling, horny boyfriend back to their place in one piece.

And he’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk man we're here for a good time not a long time.
> 
> (thank you for all the lovely responses on this silly little drabbles! you all make my heart grow.)


	5. don't lie to me

5\. **Don't Lie To Me** _(Modern AU)_

If she says she’s fine one more time, he’s going to lose it.

He understands that Arya’s pride is something she holds near and dear. He gets that she’s grown up in a house of boys and as a result as learned to tough it out and march on. He knows that she has the strongest mindset of anyone he’s ever met, and it’s one of the things he admires most about her.

Sometimes, though, it frustrates him beyond belief.

Like now.

They had been out playing a game of football with friends, a tradition that started during free college evenings, and she had somehow managed to trip and fall in front of the ball just as Lommy had been winding up to kick it towards the net. His foot had made a full collision with her head, and Gendry can remember exactly the dull whack that had caused his heart to fall into his shoes.

She’d been sitting by the time he’d sprinted across the pitch, brushing off Lommy’s apologies and insisting that she’d had much worse before. But she’d stumbled as she’d gotten back to her feet, pursed her lips like he knows she does when she’s in pain, and they’d called off the rest of the match for the night, despite her protests that she just needed a minute to catch her breath.

She hadn’t stopped protesting when he’d requested quite firmly that he’d drive her to clinic before heading in for the night.

He’d much rather be safe than sorry, even if it meant he’d have to listen to her objection through their time together in the waiting room.

When the doctor confirms she’s got a moderate concussion, he’s very, very happy he dragged her there.

Her, not so much.

She’d sulked the entire car ride home, the bag holding her prescription for pain reliever rattling in her lap. When he’d moved to help her out of the car, she’d jerked away, stepped out herself and slammed the door shut.

He didn’t miss her sharp inhale at the jarring movement, though, so he kept his hand on the small of her back as they’d climbed the stairs to the flat.

“I’m fine, Gendry.” Her voice was sharp as she’d flopped onto the couch. “It’s just a stupid concussion. I’ve had one before. Not a big deal.”

And her insistence has carried through to now, the next morning, when he asks her if she’s taken her medication for the day.

“I don’t need it.”

“The doctor said to take one every twelve hours.”

“I was _there_.” She counters, reaching across the table for her coffee. “Everyone gets headaches. This one isn’t even that bad. I don’t need a pill to fix it.”

“This isn’t just a headache, Arya, it’s a _brain injury_.” She groans, places a finger to her temple.

“Shut _up_.” He pauses, sets the coffee pot down on the counter he’s standing next to. He knows her morning moods quite well, now, and she’s never quite _this_ sullen. “I don’t need you babying me, Gendry. I’m a grown adult.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need to take care of yourself.” Her nose scrunches, and her eyes focus down at her mug.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She’s raises her other hand to mirror the one on her side of her head, and he knows she’s hurting but she’s just too damn stubborn to admit it. “You got kicked in the head last night. That barely constitutes as fine.”

“Gendry, for fucks sake.” Her voice has lowered to a growl, but it doesn’t stop him from moving to sit across from her at the table. “Just because Lommy has shitty aim doesn’t mean I need to put my whole life on hold. I am _fine_.”

She picks up her mug, abruptly stands from her chair, and immediately sways so violently that it looks as though she’s about to fall right onto the tile floor. Her hand fastens to the corner of the table with a vice like grip before he can even react enough to steady her, but he still moves swiftly to take her shoulders and realign her to her centre.

“_Arya_.” He’s about to go right into the doctor’s instructions to move slowly, to try and rest for the next couple of days, but he sees the way she’s biting her lip, got her eyes squeezed shut so tightly that it looks as though every muscle in her face is clenching, and the words fade on his tongue.

“I’m fine.” The words are much less sharp this time, directed towards his chest, and he loosens his grip, lets one hand fall to rest on her waist.

“Don’t lie to me.” He really means it, his thumb beginning to trace soft circles on her hipbone. “I’m not an idiot. I can see that you’re in pain. That’s not something you need to hide from me, Arya. You don’t have to pretend.”

“It really doesn’t hurt that badly.” It’s more of a mumble now, and he knows that her shell has begun to crack, ever so slightly.

“But it does hurt.” Her grip loosens on the table, and he takes the opportunity to lace his fingers with hers. “I know I seem overbearing, but it’s your brain that you’ve hurt, not a toe or an elbow. You’ve got to be extra careful with that. It’s not something you can just replace when it gets old.”

She fiddles with his fingers.

“I know.”

He smiles faintly, leans forward to press the softest kiss to her forehead.

“Wouldn’t want anything to replace what’s in this head of yours, anyways.” The corner of her lips quirk up ever so slightly, and a wave of relief washes over him.

She’ll be fine, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying about her.

“Let’s just have a day in, okay?” Her head bobs in a nod. “We can order in and just take it easy. You probably need that even without the concussion.”

“Okay.” His arms wrap around her waist, and she looks up at him, brow no longer furrowed, eyes looking sleepy. “As long as you promise that you won’t tend to me like I’m an invalid.”

“Only a little.” And he kisses the tip of her nose. “Only if you take your medication.”

She reaches across the table, takes the bottle and unscrews the top.

“You’ve got a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I once got a concussion once from being kicked in the head and it really ain't ideal, I'll tell you that much!
> 
> Partially inspired by ALL THE UNTREATED CONCUSSIONS IN THE SHOW like jesus christ how did Arya ride a horse after Kings Landing burning that girl's gotta have some traumatic brain damage after all that rubble!
> 
> xoxo


	6. i'll be there

6\. **I'll Be There **_(Canon)_

She’s gotten to the point where sleep has become much more difficult to reach, unable to find a position that doesn’t ache after a minute or two of stillness.

It’s a fair trade off, she supposes, from waking the middle of the night to be ill or needing to excuse herself from council meetings to barely make it to the chamber pot in time.

At least she could actually sleep, then.

So she’s awake in their chambers, pillows propped underneath her arms and her back in an odd sort of cocoon, shifting every few minutes to try and alleviate the tension in her lower body.

The maester had spoken to them very early on about the complications that could come as possibilities with her having a child, specifically those that accompanied her short stature, and he had mentioned a significant amount of pressure that would be present after the first few moons. She knows, now, that he had not been exaggerating.

Gendry’s been wonderful, a master at finding points in her back and kneading into them with his knuckles, almost always eliciting a low moan from deep in her throat. He’s somehow become even more intuitive to her needs then before she was with child, and as much as she loves to push him away and do things on her own, she knows that without him, she’d be an absolute catastrophe.

The idea of being a mother, of tiny, helpless little being that relies on her completely, still terrifies her beyond belief.

There have been so many things in her life to be fearful of, so many people and places and threats and dangers that she’s faced, and somehow a babe has leapt to the near top of her pile of things that she considers intimidating.

Perhaps it’s because she’s overcome the larger, scarier things in her life, had time to process and let them die down, and now the prospect of looming motherhood just seems more ominous because of her past fears diminishing.

Or perhaps it’s simply because motherhood somehow strikes the most natural fear into her heart.

She’s not entirely sure that she’ll ever completely know.

Gendry, on the other hand, is going to be an incredible father. She knows this without a doubt in her mind.

He’s awake too, head resting on her shoulder and finger tracing miniature circles on the swelling that just recently started to emerge from her stomach.

She thought having a babe would make her hate the contact of others, given the changes and newly unmapped territory her body was presenting, but if anything it’s made her crave Gendry’s touch more than ever before.

“I want to be there.” His voice lifts her head, and she blinks, watching as his index finger swirls over her shift. “When our baby is born. I want to be in the chambers.”

She smiles softly, reaches and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m not sure what the maester would think of that.”

“Fuck the maester.” And he turns to lock eyes with her, the movement of his hand stopping as he lays his palm flat, fingers splayed. “It’s not his child. It’s not his wife. I’ll be there.”

Her heart swells, and she tips her chin to place a kiss to his forehead.

“You know it’s not going to be some grand affair, right? You’re not going to be missing anything, really.”

“Of course I would be.” He sits up, leans against the pillows so their heads are parallel. “I don’t want to be ushered back in after you’ve been by yourself, giving birth to _our _child, and immediately feel like I’m getting some sort of credit for everything.”

She snorts gently, rolls over slightly to her right so they’re face to face.

“You do deserve a level of recognition, Gendry. I didn’t just fall pregnant on my own.”

“I want to be able to be with you through it all.” He tilts his head, hand moving from her stomach to fiddle with her fingers on the bed. “I don’t know if you’ll hate me or need me or something in between, but I know that I need to be there, regardless.”

“I’d lean more towards assuming that I’ll be furious with you.” He smiles at that, eyes still fixated on hers.

“Do you want me there, Arya?”

And she pauses, even though it’s unnecessary because she knows her answer, knows exactly who she wants by her side when she’s inevitably scared and hurt and waiting on her life to change.

“I do.”

“Then I’ll be there.” And with that, he settles his head back into her shoulder and lets his hand fall over her chest, pressing a soft kiss to the base of her jaw.

He is truly the best man.

And, months later, when he comes up to her on the birthing bed with tears falling to no yield and their daughter cradled so gently in his arms, she knows he’s going to continue to prove it for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one is so short and literally contains nothing lmao but fluff is fun!
> 
> We're just barely behind now, thanks for staying tuned!
> 
> xoxo


	7. because i can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> better late than never, am I right?

7\. **Because I Can** _(Modern AU)_

He’s never had a proper family before the Starks.

It wasn’t really something that he’d sought out during his years in the foster care system. More so, a family was like a portrait on a wall that was pretty to look at but completely unrealistic for him to expect to attain.

There were many, many nights where he’d lie awake trying to convince himself that he was at peace with it. He’d been taught from a very young age that his life was to be one of minimal expectations, and he’d learned to understand that. He’d learned how to deal with it.

He never would’ve known what getting paired up with Jon Snow for a biology project would do to change that.

He remembers the first time he’d visited the Stark house, remembers the pack of dogs that had bombarded him at the front steps and the smell of the dinner that Catelyn and Sansa had been preparing in the kitchen and how he and Jon had tip-toed by Ned’s office as he’d been completing a conference call. He remembers the game of football they’d played in the field behind the house, how he’d thought the teams were completely unbalanced with him, Jon, and his brother Robb facing off against their younger brothers and sister, and how completely wrong he’d been when Arya had knocked him flat on his back, stuck out her tongue, and promptly ran with the ball.

They were loud and boisterous and fought like cats and dogs and he couldn’t help but feel slightly overwhelmed by everything that being with the Starks had to offer.

It had been the first time in his life that he’d really seen what a family could be, what having that sort of constant in someone’s life could mean.

It’d been the first time that he’d really felt the absence of a family, his own family, and it had ached.

Catelyn had smiled warmly at him, invited him to stay for dinner, and when he’d replied with a “I’d like that, ma’am”, she’d placed a hand on his forearm and told him that she’d much prefer he’d call her by her name.

“Ma’am makes me feel like my mother. All the kid’s friends just call my Catelyn.”

Friends. He’d become one of the Stark’s friends.

And when he’d sat at the dining table, helping pass around the biscuits and listening as Ned asked Bran how his studying was going and watching as Arya snuck bits of Sansa’s food down to the dogs when she wasn’t looking, he’d somehow found himself making the stupid, foolish wish to someday have a family like the Starks.

Never in a million years did he expect that the Starks would become his family.

And yet, here he is.

They’re having a barbeque, celebrating the beginning of summer and everyone being home from university or being done with high school for the year, and he’s sitting in a fold out chair in front of the fire pit, watching as the flames rise into the fading sky. He’d offered to help with the grilling, but Ned had promised that he’d got everything under control and that he could help with the post-meal clean later, if he wanted.

Of course he wanted to. He always helps, no matter how many times he’s at the Stark house. Even now, he never ever wants to give them a reason to believe he’s overstayed his welcome.

He’s even more wary of that tonight.

Tonight, he and Arya had told the family that they were together.

He’s not exaggerating when he thinks that it was the most nervous he’s ever been in his life.

His hands had been sweating the whole car ride over, something that Arya had pointed out multiple times while also refusing to let one go.

“It’s not like they don’t know you, Gendry.” She’d laughed, after seeing just how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel. “You’re practically a staple in the family. They’re not going to all of a sudden stop liking you.”

“But what if they don’t _approve_ of me?” Her thumb had been rubbing the hand she was holding, and he wished that he wasn’t driving so she could be doing it to both of them, maybe calm him down a little more. “It’s different when I’m a friend coming over to hang out then when I’m a boyfriend. Especially your boyfriend, Arya. I think your brothers might kill me.”

She’d squeezed his hand.

“You’re not just a boyfriend. You’re family. That’s what’s different.” The laughter had left her voice, replaced with a tone of reassurance. “And I won’t let Jon and Robb touch you. Cross my heart.”

_You’re family_.

Those were the words he kept on repeat in his mind as they’d made it to the house, as they’d stood up in front of all the Starks (and extended guests) with their big, slightly confused eyes and told them that they were together, that they’d been together for a while now.

She didn’t let go of his hand the whole time.

There had been a moment of complete silence, and Gendry had gone so lightheaded that he thought that he was going to collapse.

And then Bran, of all people, had snorted from his seat.

“About time.”

And he’d looked around the room, seen smiles of varying degrees growing on each person’s face, and he could’ve cried, right then and there.

Arya had squeezed his hand so tightly.

He couldn’t stop smiling after that.

Ned had came and shook his hand, a twinkle in his eye that had reminded him of Arya, and both Cat and Sansa had given him the most enormous hugs, which he had accepted fiercely. Robb had given him a swift nod, a smirk not giving a hint of fading, and even Jon had come to him, clapped him on the back, and said “If she has to be with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”.

It somehow went better than he could’ve ever imagined.

He’s still riding the cloud of utter relief as he watches the smoke rise into the sky.

There’s a rustle of the grass behind him, and Arya appears, two beers in hand, and plops herself down on his lap. Before he has the chance to say anything, she wraps her arms around his neck and presses a long, soft kiss to his lips.

He instinctively moves a hand to her thigh and inhales, lets the sweet scent of her mingle with the smoke of the flames in front of them.

She pulls back, the same twinkle in her eyes as her father, and unravels one arm to hand him a bottle.

“What was that for?” He reaches, takes her offering and putting it in the cup-holder so he can return his hand to her waist. She shrugs, moving her bottle to her free hand and taking a sip.

“Because I can.” There’s a strand of hair falling out of her ponytail, and he reaches up and tucks it behind her ear. “Because you’re my boyfriend and my family loves you. Because_ I_ love you.”

His cheeks ache from smiling so much, but he’s not planning on stopping anytime soon.

“I’m not sure Jon loves me.” He steals a glance at his roommate, who’s sitting on the porch steps looking decidedly pale, nursing a drink of his own.

Arya looks too, and rolls her eyes.

“Jon’s always brooding.” She says, taking another gulp of her beer. “He’s probably trying to work out how he didn’t figure us out before, considering you live with him. He’s probably also wondering how many times we’ve had sex in your apartment without him knowing.”

Her eyes move back to him, and they’ve got a playful glint, now. He groans.

“He can never know. I’d be a dead man.”

She laughs at that, tightens her arm around his neck.

“You’re right.” She agrees, and he takes the opportunity of her closeness to dust his lips over her jaw. “And he never will.”

Ned’s voice rings out over the yard, signalling the impending meal, and she stands, takes his hand and pulls him up with her.

“First family dinner where we don’t have to hide our sexual tension.” He laughs at that and grabs his drink.

“I think that might be something we should keep doing.” And before she can begin to pull him towards the table, he slips in another kiss to her forehead. “I love you too.”

Her face brightens, somehow even more than before, and together they make their way towards the rest of her family.

And he is so, so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos and commenting on this fun lil collection of mine! I've had so much fun writing this week, and I'm so glad you all have been enjoying it too. See you on the flip side! 
> 
> xoxo


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